I stand on brittle grass,
the earth planting my root,
and night poured over me —
a thousand ancient wounds, stitched with light.
I thought:
what small fire kindles in my ribs,
what whisper I am,
what dust-song in an endless field of turning.
The sky opens its arms without judgment,
brimming with the slight weight of forever.
And I —
I am a blink,
a tiny exhale
in the chest of something
far too large to name.
